


confessions whispered in the dead of night

by ruthlesslistener



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Au: Whatever the Fuck, Healthy Polyamorous Relationship, I just wanna write awkward older gays in love okay, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Polyamorous Character, Self-Hatred, Time period: I Don't Fucking Know Dude, as per usual, ngl this was supposed to be a fluff prompt but I went and made it angsty, rated M for alcohol and a brief mention of mating, request from tumblr, though that's just the usual 'I can't fuck you you're drunk' sorta deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:00:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruthlesslistener/pseuds/ruthlesslistener
Summary: "You're drunk," he said, in a voice that was barely a whisper. He was numb, frozen between shock and euphoria, and somewhere under the ice there was guilt, clawing away at his insides with fangs and claws and nails, eating away at him from the inside out. "Tell me this when you're sober."Lurien let out a hard breath, one that might have been a laugh, if a laugh sounded like it should have ended in a sob. Whatever it was, it was bitter, and smelt of wine and coolleaf. His familiar sweet musk hung heavy in the air, saturated in his sheets, but the cloying scent of alcohol hung over it all like a shroud, a cruel reminder of his current state. He was not in his right mind. Genuine or no, he could not listen to this. "Try to get me to tell it when I'm sober."
Relationships: Lurien the Watcher/The Pale King (Hollow Knight), The Pale King/White Lady (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 97





	confessions whispered in the dead of night

**Author's Note:**

> I am literally physically incapable of writing short requests, fuck me
> 
> Also just as a prewarning, PK's not cheating on his wife or anything here, WL knows that Lurien has a thing for him and that he had a thing for Lurien, even if he doesn't really know it himself. This is a HEALTHY POLY RELATIONSHIP thank you very much, PK may have done a fuckload of things wrong but if there's one thing he did right, it's love his wife. This wyrm has 4 hands, ty very much, two can be dedicated to his Lady, one can be holding Lurien's hand, and the other can be used to fend off Herrah's longneedle

The party was held at the Spire, for whatever reason. The Pale King briefly considered sentencing the bug in charge of organizing public events with treason, or perhaps to several years of civic duty. These undignified whims were dismissed as soon as they came, of course, but he could not deny a faint sort of longing at the thought of it, if only to appease the coiling monster sifting restlessly through his chest, demanding retribution for its suffering. The bitter tang of the wine allowed him a grounding point in the hustle of bodies and the uncomfortable clamor of voices, but the alcohol content was not nearly high enough to do anything more than set a pleasant warm tingle through the tips of his fingers, something he found quite a shame.

(Briefly, he allowed his foresight to follow along the faint thread of an absolutely ludicrous path, one where he found the source of the wine and drank his way through all of it in the hopes of inebriation, ignoring the astounded stares of the partygoers. Sadly, the only result he discovered was the verification of his own humiliation, and an outburst of rumours centering around the King’s ability to hold alcohol, as if that was some mark of great divinity rather than a biological…’perk’ that many other bugs did not share.)

(A pity. He would much rather be drunk than weak to the whims of his building headache. The deafening clamour of inebriated chatter was starting to set an uncomfortable buzz under his shell, as if a live wire had been strung under his plates and scales. If his Lady had been here, she would have made excuses for him a long while before now, sending him off to calm down with a bit of fussing, but she could not fit in the Spire, and thus could not save him from his suffering.)

Lurien, however, had the worst of it. As the technical host of the party, he was expected to spend as much time as he could mingling- and, just as one could predict, he wasn't handling it nearly as well as he ought to. He had turned to the aid of wine to push him through the slog of pleasantries that could not be dismissed with the ease of the Pale King's light, and before long, he was weaving on his feet, his struggle to stand disguised well under his calm, quiet voice. 

If he had been any other member of the court, the Pale King would have left him to his suffering. His gift, after all, was to allow his bugs a freedom of mind. If they had decided to deal with their shortcomings through the aid of alcohol, then it was not his place to circle around them like a broody dam, fussing and clucking over their every stumble.

But he knew Lurien, in a way that he did not know many other mortals. He could tell that he would not manage to hold onto his dignity for much longer, when he was intoxicated enough to start slurring his words. And he knew, with the vague, looming sense of a possible prophecy, that if he did not, as Monomon so curiously put it, 'got them the fuck out of dodge,' then he was liable to have an  _ incident _ . One that would be easily dismissed from the minds of most mortals, given how intoxicated the crowd around him was, but one that would cripple any attempts to get him to engage with the outside world beyond a few brief trips on the heaviest days of rain, and would have him shrinking into a corner everytime it was so much as mentioned, cringing painfully away from the reminder of his slip-up.

As if he thought that he would be punished. As if he thought he would face mockery, as if he was not the third most powerful being in Hallownest, by the will of the King and support of the Queen.

The great coiling beast slithering through his thorax raised its head, and roared. He finished the last sip of his drink with a cringe of disgust, glad to be free of its cloying scent, and quietly made his way over to the corner where Lurien stood, sending a silent apology to his wife for leaving the party so early. He had told her that he would attempt to linger for longer than he’d usually attempt, but if it was Lurien...well. She would understand.

His half of the Kingsoul pulsed gently, a faint hint of benevolent warmth swirling through his chest. He touched a claw to its resting place, feeling the soft heat of it through his robes, and stifled his smile before it bared his teeth and scared somebody.

Getting to Lurien, thankfully, was far easier than he’d expected it to be. The crowd was not yet drunk enough to require Ogrim’s aid- not that calling him would be difficult, for he could hear his booming laughter quite well, as he playfully teased his old apprentices- but they were just drunk enough to not spend  _ too  _ much time gasping and whispering at his presence, even if a great many more of them stared at him, entranced by his glow. He, thankfully, did not need to elbow or prod anyone to get them out of the way, and it was not long before he broke into the ring of bugs surrounding Lurien, all of them leaning in to hear his quiet replies.

“My King!” Lurien visibly brightened as he came close, his hold on his wineglass easing from a death grip to something much more relaxed. A faint slur buzzed his words, but he still managed to sketch a small bow, even if he wobbled somewhat on the way up. “How aus-auspiciousss. We were just talking about…” He thought very hard for a moment, his grip tightening, before brightening up again. “Taxes.” 

How stimulating. And dangerous, if these bugs were coming to Lurien specifically when he was intoxicated, in the hopes of easing the strain on their geo accounts. He gave each of the fancier nobles a narrow-eyed glare, but if the bugs were aware of their transgressions, they didn’t show it. Rather, they seemed far too interested in ogling at the faint silver chains draped over his horns to pay much attention to his ire, something that at once relieved and pissed him off.

"Hello, Lurien. If it is quite alright with you gentlebugs, I think that it is time that the Watcher and I retire." He kept his voice as even as he could make it, letting his gaze scan cooly out over the crowd. All of the bugs within this room belonged to him, whether by birthright or by soul-dedication. Nobody here would attempt anything against Lurien with the King and his Watcher Knights so near, but the monster in his chest was snarling at him to  _ protect,  _ and he was too weary and buzzed-out from the party to fight against it. "We have business matters that must be discussed." 

“Oh, thank the gods,” Lurien muttered, before he stiffened and took an uncomfortably-large sip of his drink. The Pale King felt something close to amusement bubble up in his chest as he watched him struggle not to cough, but that was overshadowed by the urge to pull Lurien down and attempt to shake his thorax clear of any wine that could be choking him. No future predicted his imminent death, and yet…. “I mean. Yes, business. We always have business. Bery improtatnt. Yes.”

“Indeed,” he muttered, and fought down the urge to place a steadying hand on his side as Lurien weaved in place, hiccuping softly- that would draw attention. Far more attention than the two of them were gaining already, the reclusive King and his Watcher standing side-by-side in a public space. He fought down the urge to snarl at the wide-eyed bugs gathering around them both, to snap his fangs and hiss at their nods and understanding murmurs- these were his  _ people _ . They were loyal, they were  _ loyal,  _ they were not a threat. He had no good reason to be bristling his spines at them, or spreading his wings, or flicking his tail; that would mess up the chains strung over him, and his Lady had spent enough time fussing over him already. Perhaps the alcohol  _ was _ affecting him some way, if he was forgetting all her hard work to follow the whims of the animal within, begging for him to coil his tail around Lurien and snap at anyone who came close to him in his weakened state. He tried to dispel the urge by glaring at one of the less intoxicated nobles instead, impressing a part of his will onto their soft, weak little mind. “Tell Ogrim that he is free to return to the Palace whenever he wishes. If the party is not disbanded by the second passing of the guard, have Nihyrm of the Watcher Knights announce an order to leave. He is authorized to clear out any stragglers left behind.”

The noble stammered out a reply, their jewelry jingling as they bowed, but he was uninterested in listening to their proclamations of loyalty. All his focus turned to Lurien, now staring absently into his drained wineglass, the choked-out growl in his chest turning into a low, purring rumble that he had to force himself to swallow down.

(Perhaps he should run experiments on his intoxication levels. Truly, the alcohol must be getting to him, for him to be using a courting-rumble. He could establish his good intentions in ways other than barbaric, wordless trilling.)

“Come, Lurien,” he murmured, adding just a touch of weight to his words as he turned to walk out into the hallway; not that he needed to, for Lurien perked up and followed close behind without the extra tether, always eager to stay close. He made sure to measure his steps, so that he would not fall very far behind, but he did not give in to the gnawing desire to place a hand on his hip until after they were far from the glow of the crowd, a thousand wandering threads of potential staggers and stumbles dissolving into nothingness. 

(He was warm. Even through the thick sheet of his cloak, the Pale King could feel how warm he was. Warm, and soft, with just a bit of give to him, indicative of the short, velvety fur beneath the cloak.)

(The courting-rumble started again, unbidden. He cleared his throat before the plates could produce its distinct vibration, and allowed himself to quietly savor the relief of knowing that Lurien held no knowledge about the mating rituals of wyrmkind.)

Lurien tilted his mask at him, and let out a sigh of relief that was just a touch  _ too  _ loud. The wineglass drooped from his loosened claws, and he hurried to snatch it away before it could fall, placing it on a table behind him; Lurien hardly seemed to notice, one of his hands reaching down to cover the one on his hip, his fingers interlocking clumsily with the King’s. 

“Y’r cold,” he mumbled, and the back of his cloak shivered, his wings trying to flare with no effect. His palm was warm, the blunt tips of his claws scratching harmlessly over glowing white carapace; the Pale King hesitated, not sure whether he should withdraw, before Lurien laughed, placing his hand on his shoulder instead. “But you always are. S’okay, I don’t mind. Where are we going?”

“To your room. You are very drunk.” He tried to keep his voice at its usual steady monotone, to quell the quaver in his throat. The coiling creature in his chest was humming, urging him to sing along with, to press against Lurien’s side and tell him he was safe. To let him know that he would not take advantage of him when he was in such a vulnerable state- but this was  _ Hallownest,  _ this was not the wastes beyond the world where everything below feederbug level was out to rend you to bits, he was no longer a tunneling behemoth seeking safety away from solitude. He did not need to twist his body around him to guard his blind side, he did not need to  _ protect.  _ “You don’t have to go back to the party again.”

Again, Lurien laughed, a high, giddy sound that the King rarely heard from him, even on the good days where he was calm, and fear did not follow behind every step. “Good! I was tired of being so...so...so  _ nice.  _ They’re all so  _ loud. _ And they’re all so shparkly. Gods, they’re so s...shparkly. And it clashes so awfully. Don’t they know colour theory? Modesty is...s’lost upon them.”

His Watcher shook his head to clear it after a bit, still giggling to himself, and leaned against his palm, pressing his weight into his hand. The King blinked, distracted by a momentary loss of balance, and forced himself to stay an appropriate distance away as he responded. “Indeed. But remember, Lurien, that modesty is not their goal. They don’t care about how tasteful their clothing choices may be, as long as their wealth is displayed where all can see.”

“Ridiculous,” Lurien muttered, shaking his head; the motion nearly sent the both of them careening into the door of the elevator, and he hastily slid another arm around his hips, trying to hold him steady as he pulled him in. The clanking chime of the turning gears was not loud enough, however, to drown out his voice as he quietly whispered, “They have nothing on your beauty.”

A cold shiver ran down the King’s back, the silver chains draped around him chiming softly with the motion. It was not  _ unpleasant-  _ far from it. Every instinct churning within him called for him to lean into Lurien’s soft warmth, to bare his throat to him and let him feel his teeth, to let him know that he appreciated the compliment, and would not harm him.

And that was precisely the problem. 

“Perhaps,” he managed to choke out, though his voice was slightly strained this time. The reek scent of alcohol hung in the air, obscuring both of their scents; it was a stark reminder that what Lurien was saying might not necessarily be true. He had heard that inebriation twisted the minds of bugs, allowed them to say things that they didn’t really mean or claim things that they didn’t really believe- he would presume the same with Lurien, and would say nothing about what passed between them the day after. “But that is beyond the point. My light harbours an innate allure to mortal bugs; it is a part of my nature to draw the eye.”

“S’not what I meant.” Lurien watched hazily as they walked to the next elevator, and was silent all through the ride after that, seemingly captivated by the city lights passing by. He remained silent as the Pale King lead him into his room, apparently lost in thought; it was not until he was leading him upstairs that he said, rather abruptly, “I would like to take my mask off.”

He knew of the spells carved into the inside of the Watcher’s mask, designed specifically to protect him from the draw of kingslight. He knew that he would urge him to keep it on until he left, to protect his weak mind from the pull of his magic- but his stomach was doing a slow roll at the thought of seeing him so vulnerable, at the trust required for such a thing. 

And besides, he had known Lurien for centuries. This wasn’t the first time that he had been around him when he was drunk. Surely, he could be trusted to go unmasked around him, the social intimacy aspect of it notwithstanding. 

“You may,” he said, and had to lean against the wall as Lurien’s elbow bumped into his shoulder in his haste to pull it up. He averted his eyes, allowing him a moment to groom his fur back into place, before he cleared his throat and tugged on his waist again. “But we’re not stopping here. You need to rest.”

“‘M not that drunk,” Lurien muttered, shaking out his antennae; the light of the city caught the iridescent markings on his face as they wandered into his bedroom, turning his soft, velvet-black fuzz into a spangled starscape. The sight did...odd things to his chest, a nearly-familiar fluttering sensation sweeping up his thorax before he took a deep breath and snuffed it out. 

Or, rather, he  _ tried _ to snuff it out. It didn’t really work, not when Lurien’s right leg hit the bed and pitched him right into the middle of it, his surprised shout devolving into snickers as his cloak tangled up around him. He’d nearly brought him down with him, too, only his quick wyrm reflexes saving him from a graceless fall into a nest that did not belong to him, and the quiet, lighthearted sound of Lurien’s laughter- such a rare occurrence, inebriated or no- echoed under the pounding of the rain. 

“You are very drunk.” He tried to sound stern, to sound serious, but that fluttering feeling in his chest refused to settle. To distract himself, he set about preparing the mortal cures for hangovers- a fresh cup of water, poured from the pitcher on Lurien’s bedside table, a capsule of powdered coolleaf sunk into it to soothe the stomach. He hesitated, running his claws over some of the other powdered herbs in one of the drawers- mossweed bark for calming the mind, bitterroot to ease muscle cramps and induce infertility, sweetvine leaves to soothe pain- but he hadn’t the medicinal knowledge necessary to feel comfortable with adding anything else, so he closed the drawer, and swung his tail up to perch on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore how the sheets smelled like the Watcher. “Drink this. It will help you.”

Lurien’s form had been obscured by the drape of his cloak, but now, as he staggered back upright, the shape of him was slowly revealed, a bug emerging from what had once been an unassuming pool of fabric. Without the cover of his hood and mask, his delicate beauty was an almost startling contrast to the shapeless creature he became when he hid in his official’s robes; the King knew this, for he had helped designed the robes specifically to hide the form, and yet he still found it difficult to look away, offering only a quiet hum when Lurien clumsily murmured his thanks.

_ You’re staring, fool. Turn away. You know what happens when you stare at mortals for too long. You know how you unsettle them.  _

_ Turn away. _

It was impossible. He had always had an eye for details, and curiosity had been his downfall- he could not look away, he could not stop himself from trying to commit Lurien’s bare face to memory. Not that he was hard to look at- quite the opposite, really, despite the third eye, the mark of Hallownest’s claim on him- or, perhaps, because of it. He knew that mortals feared the touch of magic, but he was a god, and the touch of the land upon his closest devotee threatened to call the rumble back up in his chest, content in the knowledge of his claim to him. Soft black fur fluffed out over his collar, through his silvery antennae, speckled with flecks of grey and iridescent blue; the close-cropped fuzz over his face and neck was a dark, velvety colour that nearly rivaled the endless depths of the abyss, save for a faint hint of silver near his mouth. The glow of the city lights rippled over him like water as he drank, lighting up his markings everytime he moved, until one could not help but feel as if they were looking at the night sky itself, a glossy expanse of shifting darkness and spangled light. 

Lurien’s kin was reputed for their otherworldly beauty. He knew this. He had to deal with the whispers of excitement and the waves of inspired artists everytime a rare visitor dared to brave the misty caverns and winding pathways of Hallownest. They were, perhaps, not the most attractive bugs out there, by the standards of his people- too thin, too delicate, too eerily colourful and frail- but if there was anything that could be said about them, it was that they were beautiful. 

(It was strange, then, that he had never been as captivated by the performers that his Lady had invited to the palace as he had been with Lurien. He was, by their standards, not the most extravagant of bugs- higher castes had more markings, more colours, more variety and decor. But at some point, in the quiet moments where casual company allowed for the luxury of bare faces, or a ritual demanded there be no barriers between the mind of a god and their devotee, he had begun to notice his beauty, and now that he realized it, he couldn’t  _ stop  _ noticing it.)

(Something about him drew the eye, in a way that the other bugs did not. The hunger that it aroused in him was not a desire for flesh, but something...different. A desire _ of  _ the flesh, a call for him to coil around, to let everyone know who he belonged to, what god gifted him strength. A satisfaction in knowing his claim over him.)

Dimly, he became aware that he was still staring, and that he should probably stop that at once- he knew that Lurien was not a fan of being watched, even if he, ironically, was the Watcher of the City of Tears. But Lurien didn’t seem to notice, too drunk or focused on his water to care, and so he allowed his gaze to linger for just a little while longer. Just long enough to catch how his left antennae flicked as he finished drinking. Just long enough for the odd fluttering sensation in his chest to still, and turn into something quieter, more content. 

Just for a moment too long. 

Lurien held up the empty glass, tilting it back and forth in the glow of his kingslight; he caught the faint sparkle of interest in his eyes as he watched the way that it warped and danced, reflecting and refracting, before he caught his wrist and gently pried it from his grip, not wanting to risk him dropping it. Lucien had taken the evening off to visit his family, and would likely not be back until much later- he had the most experience out of all of the bugs in dealing with broken glass and other mishaps, but the carpet was thick, and he knew that he would spend the night worrying if he left a drunken mortal around possible shards. Even if his foresight did not warm him of such an occurrence.

Just to be safe, he refilled the glass until it was only half-empty, and placed it carefully in the center of the bedside table. No future-threads warned of it falling, but he didn’t want to tempt fate either way.

“Hopefully, that should stave off the headache,” he mumbled, because the only other alternative was to choke back that damned rumbling again- he was a god, he was ascended, he was  _ beyond  _ the need to trill at every creature he grew fond of. He was a  _ king,  _ not some hapless wild thing looking for more mates, this was not a courting-venture. Lurien did not deserve that, and he was more than the beastly creature he used to be. "Are you feeling better?"

"Mmm." A nonanswer, but his Watcher seemed to be occupied with something else, all three of his eyes focused at some distant point just over the Pale King’s shoulder. His hands kneaded his robes, running the thick fabric over his palmpads, before, in an abrupt rush, he blurted "I meant it, y'know. I meant what I said when I said that you're beautiful. 'N not because of your light, either. Though that is rather….nice."

He was honest. He knew he was, for he knew Lurien far better than many other mortals. This was not some one-off drunken rambling. He was being completely, unapologetically honest.

A sliver of ice manifested in his chest- cold dread or pained apprehension, he did not know. His thoughts felt as if they were moving through thick clay- he could not think, he could not understand the cold, dropping sensation, as if he was plummeting into an endless chasm without the aid of his wings. Lurien dipped his head, shy even with the aid of alcohol, and slowly shuffled closer to lean against the King's shoulder, the heat of his body a scorching brand against his side. He flinched at the touch, but did not move away- he could not. Something was not letting him, and the burn of Lurien’s touch was oddly welcomed. Something in him wanted to lean back, to loop himself around him and never let go, and  _ he could not move _ . 

(‘ _ Why would you leave?’  _ cried the wild thing in his heart, as he gnashed his fangs and tried to push it away.  _ ‘He is yours. This is fine. This is right.’ _ )

He was not like the Old Light, he did not bind those close to him in chains of servitude. They earned his gift of free mind when they swore themselves to his kingdom. They were his, and he was theirs, through a distant pact of protection and dedication rather than blinded loyalty. He was more than an animal seeking affection, he was a civilized being,  _ he could not break to his own instincts- _

"I...I love you, you know? I fucking love you." Lurien’s voice quavered on the last syllable, choked with emotion; there was no doubt in the King's mind that it was genuine. It was real. This was  _ real. _ He was grounded in his physical shell, the veil of dreams far away, the layers of the world settled into place, and Lurien was whispering things and it was  _ real.  _ "Not just because you're beautiful. I love your dedication, your patience. Your curious nature and all the wonderful things you make."

He waved one hand, claws flailing pointlessly, and hiccupped. Under the quiet roar of the rain, it almost sounded like a sob. "I love all of you. I do."

"You're drunk," he said, in a voice that was barely a whisper. He was numb, frozen between shock and euphoria, and somewhere under the ice there was guilt, clawing away at his insides with fangs and claws and nails, eating away at him from the inside out. "Tell me this when you're sober."

Lurien let out a hard breath, one that might have been a laugh, if a laugh sounded like it should have ended in a sob. Whatever it was, it was bitter, and smelt of wine and coolleaf. His familiar sweet musk hung heavy in the air, saturated in his sheets, but the cloying scent of alcohol hung over it all like a shroud, a cruel reminder of his current state. He was not in his right mind. Genuine or no, he could not listen to this. "Try to get me to tell it when I'm sober." 

He could not say anything to that. He could not say anything at all, but when Lurien fumbled for his hand (seeking comfort, perhaps, something to ground him), he took it. Warm palmpads laid against his own, the rough calluses of an artist's hand catching on the ridges of his carapace. Lurien's breath hitched, his fingers clumsily trying to slot between his own, and, without thinking, he reached over to help guide them together, a shiver running through his wings when they finally fit, Lurien’s warm fingerpads pressing against the back of his palm.

No words were said; no words felt like they fit. Thousands ran through his head, danced over his tongue; he could not bring them to light, no matter how hard he tried. He could not decipher the rippling tangle of feelings within him, thundering in his heart; they surged through his blood, powerful,  _ wild _ , a tide washing over him, and he had to fight off the panic he felt as Lurien pressed his face up against his shoulder and he tipped his head back and  _ let  _ him, a spark of fear engulfing him at the force of his own emotions.

...He remembered this, very faintly, from a very, very long time ago. He remembered when he was still a young, blind wyrm, fresh from the nest, full of ideas on how he would make his world a better place, how he would win his worship not with blood, but with logic and reasoning. He remembered the awe he had felt when he had run across roots rife with power, when he felt those roots circle around his neck, the terror and suspicion of the budding goddess only heightening her beauty as he was torn from the earth and held before her, to be poked and prodded about in the realm of dreams.

He remembered that feeling, the fear and euphoria, remembered how it had heightened his senses and emboldened him in his conquest, both of his lands and of her loyalty. He remembered how it had settled into something shy, later on, something sweet, turning from a mad hungry dash to capture her attention into a quiet need to press against her side, to coil around her and whisper to her of wonderful things and feel as if he was understood for the first time in all his long years. How giddy he had felt, a striking change from his cold apathy from before, the dull grey plains of his emotions brightening into a silvery-blue burst of beauty, shining deep in his heart, strengthening his resolve. 

This was not so different. 

Eventually, he noticed that Lurien was no longer deliberately trying to nuzzle into the crook of his neck, and was instead dozing off, his slow, even breaths warm against his neck. With a sigh, he untangled his fingers, trying not to hesitate as Lurien let out a soft grunt of dismay, and pressed his free hands against Lurien’s shoulders and side, trying to help guide him into a resting position. 

“Sleep,” he murmured, the words clumsy on his tongue; he felt as if he was just learning how to speak again, trying to figure out how to move his mandibles to produce a soft sigh instead of a cold, rasping hiss. He covered up the awkward edge to his speech by focusing on drawing the blankets about his Watcher, making sure to prop his pillows up in the rough approximation of a nest. It would not be something that he ever did in polite company, but, well...this was different, and the desire to ensure that Lurien was comfortable was not something that he wished to fight right now. “We can speak of this in the morning, if you remember it.”

Lurien groaned, and pawed weakly at the front of his robes; that was  _ strikingly  _ close to the row of softer scales under his left forearm, and he had to resist the urge to flinch away at the touch, an unpleasant tingle running up his side. “Mmm, noo. Want you.” He let out a sharp sigh, his outstretched hand trailing down his side, before it caught the ridge of his hip and fell limp. “Stay with me.”

The end of his voice trailed off into a quiet moan, and cold claws squeezed the Pale King’s chest; the plates on the back of his neck stood on end, his wings ruffling out a bit as his mind raced through the possibilities. Lurien wasn’t himself right now, it wasn’t out of the question if that was...“If you’re asking for me to mate with you, then I’m going to have to decline. You know that I can’t do that when you’re intoxicated.” 

"That would be nice,” Lurien slurred, and something  _ else  _ burned in his chest, the shard of ice from before melting away. His hand dropped off of his hip, hanging limp on the sheets; he wasn’t entirely sure if Lurien was even aware of its position in the first place, his words barely coherent. “But not r’now. I wanna hold you.” 

...Ah. He recognized that emotion, this time. Possessiveness, and a  _ hunger,  _ one that was not quite as physical as it was spiritual, though it ran a phantom palm down the ridges of his back. It was an urge that was typically rare for him, given how abhorrent he found the touch of others to be without proper warning, but it was one that he often felt when around his Lady or…

...Lurien. 

Thinking became difficult again, his emotions a whirl of colour that he didn't understand. Couldn't parse, not quite, with the warmth of the room and the familiar scent of his Watcher thick in the air, safe and comforting. The dark pressed in on him, thick and heavy; it was tempting, to give in to his nature, and slide into bed with him. It was tempting, to loop his body around his vulnerable form and guard him until morning, to feel the steady rise and fall of his breaths, to sense that thread of connection linking them, god and chosen devotee.

It would be so easy. 

_ Your Lady is in her gardens. She urged you to be closer to your heart, the last time you closed her out. She smiles everytime the Watcher passes her by. She knows, she knows, she knows. Her heart is intwined with yours and she knows, she knows, she knows. _

_ You are the god of mind. Say something, say  _ **_something_ ** _ , damn you! _

"Rest," he heard himself say instead, as if from very, very far away; he felt as if he was observing himself from a point somewhat to the side of where his body was, the pale white of his fingers foreign against the dark sheets. If Lurien made a sleepy noise of protest, he did not hear it- the sound of the rain felt muffled, ringing through his head. If Lurien said anything to him right now, he would not hear it. His heart was beating as fast as a prey animal in flight, and he could not  _ think. _ "Rest, and dream well."

He would not say he fled. Not really. But he exited Lurien's room in a whirl of motion that nearly made him dizzy, barely checking if the door closed behind him. The cold, sharp air of the Spire, acrid with the smell of paint and candle-smoke, was nearly a slap to the face after the warmth of Lurien’s bed, the comforting familiarity of his scent. He wanted nothing more than to turn right around, all his instincts screaming at him to go back home, but he was  _ more  _ than his instincts, he was  _ more  _ than a great tunneling monster made to eat and kill and burrow and kill again, and Lurien was intoxicated. His inhibitions were lowered. The honesty in his voice could have been real, yes, but the desire behind it could have been the drink, it could have been his light, luring him in, impressing his own sorry wishes onto those closest to him because wasn’t that just like a wyrm, a pitiful starving thing damned to hunger and hunger and conquer and conquer until everything in the world was theirs and they were a great gluttonous creature of death, or they devoured themselves in their desire for more, more,  _ more,  _ and-

And then he sat down on the steps leading up to the hidden bedroom, his heartbeat a relentless thundering drum in his chest. The rasp of his breathing was a pitiful thing under the pounding in his chest and the roar of the rain, as he coiled his tail around himself and held his head in his hands, euphoria and misery surging through his veins.

_ What was he to do? _

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, PK reciprocates, he just has some, uh, power imbalance issues to work over first. Or, rather, fear of power imbalance issues, bc tbh I hc Lurien to be perfectly able to fend him off if he so wishes, he just usually doesn't want to
> 
> Hope I got drunk characters right, too, the only experience I have with intoxication is my qpp and she's a party drunk, so she's not quite on the level of Lurien's awkward nerd moments


End file.
